


Summer’s Killing Us

by GoldenBloodyTears



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Barbecue, Burn injuries, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Closeted Character, Every chapter is a Tragically Hip song, First Aid, Horror, Implied/Referenced Torture, Languages, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Male Character, POV Third Person Limited, Somewhat beta read, Suburbia, Summer, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 17:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20492669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenBloodyTears/pseuds/GoldenBloodyTears
Summary: Every year, Strade’s neighbourhood has a July barbecue. This summer is one he won’t forget for a long while!Also known as a fic I've been meaning to finish and post since June.





	1. Bobcaygeon

The day is ending. The summer sun is dying away, lighting the sky in burning oranges and violent reds as it starts to sink past the horizon. Humidity clings to the air like a last breath, making everything feel sticky in the slow-cooling evening air.

The Hudsons’ backyard is alive with the throes of their annual Independence week BBQ. It’s neither the first nor the fourth of July, but from the clamouring of children and the chattering of drunken adults, one might think it was both. 

Strade sits behind the grill in a little plastic deck chair that’s too solid to be cheap, yet too uncomfortable to be well-spent. He’s surrounded by his male neighbours, suburban dads in crew-shirts and khakis who take turns to man the grill like it’s a sacred flame. He fits right in with his cargo shorts and plaid, watching the party from where he sits while the others talk over his head. Bobcaygeon is playing on the living room stereo, pulsing into the backyard through the screen door to compete with the sound of that one asshole drunkenly attempting Wonderwall on his guitar again this year.

Suddenly, the group of dads parts like the Red Sea as a short blonde woman in a white maxi dress pushes her way to the grill. Strade hears a little puff behind him as one of the men inhales in surprise. It’s followed by a loud bellow of “Julie!” as Dan Cartier bursts forward to scoop the woman up into his arms. She hugs him back with a laugh, and Strade assumes he’s not the only person wondering about this development.

“Guys, this is my baby sister, Julie,” Dan explains, gesturing to the woman. ‘Baby sister’ seems to be an apt descriptor, because this Julie stands nearly a full foot shorter than Dan’s six feet. 

“Hello, gentlemen. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Julie says with a hint of an accent he can’t quite place, taking the time to look at each of the men surrounding her. When she gets to Strade, there’s a brief pause, her gaze dropping to his left hand that currently holds his beer. He’s not wearing a ring—and from the slight twitch to her face, it’s a surprise. She looks back up and smiles at him—confident, flirty, an open invitation—then moves on, stepping forward to shake Tom Hudson’s hand on his left. 

“Glad you could make it!” Tom says, moving his sunglasses up with his left hand so they sit on top of his rust-brown hair as he shakes Julie’s hand with his right. She smiles at their host, blood-red lipstick against bone white teeth—what shape might that same mouth make if he were to grab her by the hair and slam her face against the blistering flames of the charcoal grill behind her? 

Strade grins at the thought. He can smell the imaginary scent of charred skin and burnt hair like a strong perfume as he watches Julie descend the steps into the backyard.

“Don’t look now, Dan,” somebody drunkenly jeers from behind him, “But I think Strade has an interest in your sister.”

The guys all laugh as Dan sets his gaze on him. Strade averts his eyes, taking a swig from his beer as if he was just caught red-handed. The act seems to placate Dan because he smiles next, turning his gaze out to the yard. Strade follows, his eyes settling on where Julie has gone. She’s joined the gaggle of mothers by the plastic kiddie pool full of toddlers, sitting in the grass next to Dan’s wife who's nursing their infant, tits out like a hippie for everyone to see.

“I think you could be good together.” He hears Dan say, but as he watches Julie—

“She's been through a couple of bad breakups, and you're always saying you haven't met the right one...” 

She laughs as one of the mothers cracks a joke—

“And, well, she could clean you up!” 

Dan whacks him on the back as Julie catches his gaze from across the yard.  
Their eyes meet, green to amber, and she smiles at him with all the brilliance of the rising sun.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Strade says with a laugh as he takes another shot of beer.

Dan is not right. He’s rarely ever right, in fact. Everything about his sister is wrong; she’s too forward, too loud. If she disappeared, people would care—hell, they would notice almost immediately. He can visualize the cash he’d make by featuring her in a stream, but that doesn’t outweigh the trouble she’d cause him.

Julie is not his type at all. 

However, Tom Hudson is his type. 

Recently divorced, lives alone in the house next door to Strade; the one that used to also house his wife and kids until shit hit the fan for him. Poor self-esteem and likes to drink to hide it, a bad habit the divorce has compounded. He always smells faintly like tobacco and Old Spice aftershave, with a hint of peppermint in the winter from eating candy-canes with his two kids.

Strade likes the little one. She’s five years old and a bit of a social butterfly.She can’t pronounce his name right but always has a story to tell when she sees him. She’s currently curled up in her mother’s lap by the kiddie pool, feet bouncing against the plastic chair legs as Ashley no-longer-Hudson talks to another one of Tom’s guests. 

The screen door slides open, slamming against the frame as the other Hudson spawn steps out onto the deck. Tom’s son is fourteen with acid green hair and a permanently smug face. He carries the look of a punk, but Strade still remembers a year earlier when Tom called about spare boxes for a stray cat they'd found. The mangy thing died before he’d been able to bring the box, so he’d stood on the porch awkwardly as Tom comforted his bawling snot-nosed son who sobbed like there was no tomorrow. 

Children always react the same—Strade did even when he was one too. No matter how tough, mad, scared or sad, they will always cry and scream for their parents. 

Tom’s son catches him staring; Strade grins and nods his head toward him in greeting. There’s a pause before the kid gives him a painfully fake smile in return, then quickly descends the deck steps as if he has somewhere better to be.

“Alright, that’s the last of the burgers,” says one of the dads whose name Strade can’t place—just knows his kid delivers the paper to his house. “Who’s ready to eat?”

There’s lots of food for the party to pick through. Chicken wings, hot dogs, hamburgers, and more. Strade sticks to one of the steaks he brought and cooked himself. They’re the same cut he brings every year: the same cut that’s made Dan try to pester the name of the butcher shop out of him for each of those five years. The Costco macaroni salad is fine, Ashley's potato salad is as bland as ever—they’re out of barbecue chips, so he adds some all-dressed ones to his plate to clean his palate of that monstrosity later—and there’s more than enough beer in the cooler to keep any alcoholic happy.

All in all, everything is the usual. Or, at least until Ashley and Tom start yelling at each other 30 minutes later.


	2. In Sarnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strade finds out what’s eating Tom.

“I can’t believe you forgot!” Ashley’s voice is loud and shrill. A harpy ready to lose its head. 

“Well I did!” Tom’s voice is quieter, choked off by his ex-wife’s anger.

They’re standing on the side of the house, separated from the party by the chain-link gate and wooden fence posts. Everyone is pretending they can’t hear, Strade notes, suddenly deaf while still speaking to their neighbours. 

“Imagine how embarrassing this must be for the kids,” Julie says, voice sick with sympathy, face-first into the ice cooler that’s slowly dwindling of booze. Strade has zero idea what she’s talking about, more focused on the display of her ass as she bends further forward while searching for another beer. She is right though, the Hudson children have disappeared, only the open screen door to suggest their escape.

It’s not the first time he’s heard the Hudsons arguing—it’s simply the first time they’ve done it out in the open for everyone to see.

The chain-link gate slams with the sound of rusted metal clashing. Strade turns his head to find Tom storming up the deck steps, a beeline straight in his direction. His face is flushed red, but by the time he’s crossed the deck to stand in front of Strade’s chair, he looks more like he wants to cry.

“Hey buddy,” Strade greets gently, struggling to contain his sudden surge of enthusiasm. He loves a good fight.

Tom blinks in response, a light inhale to steady himself before he speaks.

“Do you want to come with me? I need to pick up some last minute supplies at the store...”

Strade doesn’t want to leave the party, nor does he really want to walk to the store. Tom shifts on his foot, waiting for his response. Julie is looking at them both like she might melt with emotion, eyebrows furrowed and a deep-set frown. He wants to know how much she’s had to drink because her eyes are glassy, something that’s only going to get worse now that she’s out of the cooler with another can of ice cider.

“Yeah, bud, let’s go.” He sighs as he stands.

Don’t need to look like an asshole by refusing to go, not with everyone watching.

He follows Tom through the gate, down the side of the house and out to the driveway. When they pass by Ashley fuming over on the steps of the front porch, she looks at Strade in a way that says he’d be dead on the concrete if looks could kill. Out on the curb, he watches as Tom checks his pockets, making sure he has his wallet before he looks back and motions for them to continue on.

They walk about a block before one of them speaks.

“Can I ask?” Strade begins, trying to fill the silence. He hates being idle. It wastes time.

“Ashley’s mad that I forgot the fireworks…” Tom explains, answering Strade’s next question before it leaves his mouth. “That’s what we’re going to get now.”

Strade nods, casually stretching his arms up above his head as they walk down the sidewalk.

“It’s stupid. She moves in with her mother, gets custody of the kids, but still expects me to be at her beck and call...” Tom continues, his hands twitching as they swing at his sides. He switches into a falsetto, mimicking Ashley’s drawl perfectly, “I want us to have the barbecue, same like we’d do every year. I think it would really help Reese and Jessie.”

Strade laughs, a loud guffaw at the impromptu imitation. 

“But I’m going to let you take care of the whole thing, of course! And then, when you fuck up, I’m going to embarrass you and our kids by bitching at the party in front of everyone we know!” Tom sneers as he yells, nose flared and face red with his mouth all teeth and gums. Strade can’t remember the last time he’s seen him this angry, if ever. It makes his stomach buzz to see his mild-mannered neighbour crack apart under pressure.

“...Thanks for coming with me,” Tom mumbles, hastily trying to cover his outburst.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, buddy~” Strade grins, patting his shoulder.

They reach the plaza that contains the closest convenience store and gas station; a small grey building on grey pavement with neon lights and bars over the windows. There’s the beep of an alarm as they step through the sliding doors into the crisp air-conditioned interior. The elderly cashier, asleep in his chair, awakes with a jolt to stammer out a greeting. Tom shoots the cashier an awkward smile, disappearing down the aisle to the firework display at the back of the store.

Strade makes his way to the beer section, looks through the various brands until he finds his favourite. He grabs a pack of twenty-four, bringing it over to the counter. He smiles at the cashier as he fishes through his pocket for his wallet.

“Do you have an ID?” The cashier croaks. 

Strade blinks, giving a confused laugh. The cashier gives him a pointed look, and he realizes the guy’s left eye is actually a fake by the way it lags behind the movement.

“It’s company policy, sir, I have to ID everyone who purchases alcohol.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Strade replies, light and chipper as if he isn't being inconviencienced.

He can feel his Swiss army knife pressed up against his fingers inside his pocket as he goes to pull out his wallet.

How would this guy react to him tied up in his basement? There’s no rules there, only the ones Strade gets to make in the moment. Would he scream? Curse him out as his other eye is gouged from the socket? Or accept his fate? What’s full blindness to a man with one fake eye? Maybe he’d have to get creative... remove his wrinkled fingers, one by one until he has stubs for hands? This guy looks old but sturdy. Old enough to be a Vietnam veteran, old enough to have a lifetime of different reactions to whatever he throws at him—

His palms are sweating, his fingers quivering slightly at the possibilites.

“Sir?” 

He pulls out his wallet.

“Here,” Strade simply says with a smile as he flashes his driver’s license. He inhales through his nose to calm down while the cashier looks it over, ringing up the price for the beer. 

Fuck, why is beer so expensive?

Tom appears at his side, a box-full of fireworks tucked under his arm as Strade pays in cash. He pulls the 24-pack from the counter, setting it down on the floor so Tom can make his purchase. 

He watches as Tom digs through his black leather wallet. Pulls out a glossy looking credit card and sticks it into the card reader, punching his pin into the keypad. The POS warbles to life, printing the receipt that Tom promptly asks for and receives from the cashier.

“Have a good night, boys,” The cashier says as they exit the store, alarm chiming as the doors slide closed behind them. 

“I just got carded,” Strade says, still incredulous.

“Oh man, really?” Tom laughs in response, “You don't look a day under thirty.”

They make it to the edge of the lot before Tom pauses, putting the box of fireworks down on the pavement. Strade watches as he sticks his hand into the breast pocket of his shirt, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. 

“Do you want a smoke?” Tom offers, shaking the carton. 

Strade doesn’t usually smoke. When he does, it’s always some variation of an expensive cigar, but he’s had a great night so far, so what’s a shitty cheap cigarette to put him into a better mood?

“Sure,” he responds with a grin, tilting his head when Tom stalls after thumbing the carton open.

“Uh... actually... you don’t mind sharing, do you?” He starts to say, looking sheepish. “Turns out I’ve only got one left.” 

Strade snorts. If spit made him squeamish, his basement wouldn’t look the way it does.

“We can split it.” He says.

Tom breathes a sigh of relief. He tucks the carton back into his shirt pocket, pulling his zippo from the pocket of his cut-off jeans. He tucks the filtered end of the cigarette between his lips, then flicks his thumb to light the cigarette with the lighter.

Nothing happens.

He tries again—nichts.

Strade makes a little sigh, places his beer pack on the ground so he can dig through his pockets. He knows he has matches on him somewhere. Always does. There was this girl he met—he imagines telling Tom—her name was, what, Sarnia? Some city that he’d thought was funny. He'd met her at the Braying Mule a few nights ago, and she was so cute she just lit his heart right up!

So he had to light her up in return, of course.

She’d screamed so fucking loud when he did it, too.

He fishes his matchbox out of his pocket, shaking it so it rattles as he holds it up. Tom smiles at him, a lopsided grin with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. 

Strade pulls a match from the box, striking it along the edge. He leans in to light the cigarette. Tom inhales sharply, choking as he breathes the smoke.

“Easy now,” Strade laughs, patting Tom’s shoulder. The dude is a smoker, surely he knows how to smoke properly... 

Tom takes another drag, letting the smoke sit before he exhales it through his nose. Strade can smell it, practically taste the tar, as Tom passes the cigarette off to him.

He presses it to his lips and takes a hungry drag. He closes his eyes and lets the smoke cool in his mouth before he swallows it. The taste is cheap like roofing tiles, not nearly as rich as his cigars, but he can feel the nicotine hit almost immediately, so it serves his purpose. 

“You’re a great friend, Strade,” Tom says so suddenly that it catches him off-guard.

“Yeah, buddy?” He says, taking another puff from the cig. He opens his eyes to find Tom staring back at him.

He isn’t sure if it’s just all the shit companies add to make them addictive, but standing under the hazy LED of the streetlight, surrounded by cigarette smoke, Tom is looking at him in a way Strade has never seen him do before. He can’t recognize the emotion, and he doesn’t like that. He runs his tongue against his teeth, takes another breath of smoke before handing the cigarette back to Tom.

“Yeah, man,” Tom shakes ash from the end. His hands are shaking as he presses the paper to his lips to take another sharp drag. “You and I, we’ve got stuff in common.” 

Beer? The occasional cigarette? An appreciation for a good power-saw? He's pretty sure his interests are wildly different to Tom’s for that last one. 

“Hey,” Tom says as Strade steals the cigarette back, “You ever thought about marriage?” 

Strade squints, cracking a quizzical grin. 

“I saw how you and Julie were looking at each other earlier,” Tom teases, a smirk on his face.

Strade runs a hand through his hair as he inhales. There’s no way in hell he’s drunk enough for this.

“My advice is... don’t do it,” Tom continues, a small laugh escaping from him. “Don’t get married, don’t have kids...”

Tom blinks, his snarky exterior starting to crack.

“Don’t do it, because... your wife will divorce you and take your kids.” 

Tom’s starting to look like he wants to cry again—Strade isn’t entirely sure why, because if he had a wife he wouldn’t care less if she divorced him and took the kids. A family is too much trouble and he wants none of that. 

“I’m 34 years old. Divorced after 14 years. Got two kids who want to know why their mom and dad don’t love each other anymore...” Tom continues to speak, a wheezy rabble as he inhales the second-hand smoke that Strade exhales. 

“I… I can’t explain it—how do you tell your kids that if their father had been true to himself, they’d have never been...” Tom trails off, looking down as he hesitates.

He looks back at Strade a moment later with such an intensity that the pieces finally click into place.

Ah.

“Sometimes you have to hide since people don’t understand,” Strade says to Tom, voice low. “But that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

Tom closes his eyes, makes a small sniffle. Strade wonders if he’s going to actually cry—he’s been wondering about it since they met. He thinks he’d make a good pet, which is maybe the one thing he’d ever thank Ashley for. For breaking her husband in for him with all her bullshit. 

Hand in his pocket, he can feel the swiss army knife again. It would be easy—just invite Tom back to the house, say that he needs help getting something in the basement. Blitz him, tie him up with his freshly bought rope. Grab his favourite knife and trace lines into his skin. Feel every muscle jump and hear every little noise that Tom makes—how much would he cry then? How much would he beg? Strade takes another drag from the cigarette to calm himself, hissing when ash blows back and stings his hand. 

“I love my kids, and Ashley wants to take them from me,” Tom says, his voice wavering. 

He’s got actual fucking tears in his eyes as he slumps forward. 

Strade bites into the cigarette, the sponge of the filter squishing between his teeth. He places both his hands on Tom’s shoulders to keep their distance. However, Tom misreads his intent, steps closer and wraps his arms around his waist in a hug.

Strade has one rule. No neighbours. Specifically, nobody who can be easily traced back to him.

Tom is tempting him to break that rule.

Strade is sweating. Breathing through his nose as he tries not to think about all the pain—all the pleasure—he could give into. He lets the hug last only for a moment, pulling away as quick as he’s allowed to. He pats Tom’s shoulder again, giving him a smile as he drops the ruined cigarette onto the pavement and crushes it under his shoe.

“Come on, buddy.” He says, still forcing a smile. “Your kids are waiting.” 

Tom lets out a shaky breath, snapping his sunglasses back into place on his face like armour. He avoids Strade’s eyes as he picks the box of fireworks back up, tucking them under his arm. He drags his foot against the pavement as Strade picks up his beer, rocks crumbling under his flip-flop like a metronome to racing thoughts. 

Strade balances the box on his hip, gesturing with his left hand for Tom to start walking as he adjusts it. Tom makes a noise at the back of his throat, a little hum of agreement as he puts one foot in front of the other, Strade following in tow.

They walk back in near-silence; Strade hums under his breath, keeping time with their footfalls against the concrete sidewalk. Tom seems distracted, nearly misses the Do Not Walk cue when they get to an intersection. Strade grabs the back of his shirt and holds him in place until the crosswalk cue gives the all-clear. 

“Thanks, dunno what I’d do without you,” Tom says with a grin, his voice cracking. 

For a brief moment, Strade regrets having not pushed Tom into the passing traffic. Hell, Tom would’ve probably thanked him for doing so.

When they arrive back at the house, Tom’s daughter—is it Reese or Jessie?—races down the driveway, tiny feet pattering against the brick to throw herself at her dad’s knees. Tom passes the fireworks off to Strade, reaches down to pick his daughter up and swing her over his shoulders. She shrieks in response, followed by a peal of giggles.

“Welcome back, daddy!” She says, burying her face into his hair as she kisses the top of his head.

Tom laughs in response. It’s brittle sounding, like it might break and expose the truth lying just beneath but never does. Strade has a feeling that if he ripped Tom’s sunglasses from his face, he’d find tears in the brown eyes underneath. 

But Tom’s daughter doesn’t seem to notice, smiling as she looks over at Strade. She’s got a gap in her teeth, freckled cheeks framed by ginger-blonde curls. He smiles back.

“Mommy wants to see you.” 

Tom says nothing to that, simply placing his daughter back onto the pavement before kissing her on the head. "Go find your brother," He finally says, "I'll go talk to mommy, okay?"

Strade follows Tom as they head once again into the backyard. Sure enough, Ashley is there waiting for them, draining the cooler of melted ice as a past-time.

"Oh, you're back." She says dryly. She eyes the fireworks in Tom's hands, seemingly pleased for a moment before she notices the pack of beer Strade has tucked under his arm. She narrows her eyes.

"You bought more beer?"

It's a small thing, but Strade notices the sudden rigidness of Tom's posture as he prepares for a scolding.

"Ashley," Tom starts to say, but Ashley isn't paying attention to her ex-husband. No, she's still staring at him like he's done something wrong—if only she knew beer was the least of her problems.

"Ah, no need to worry. The beer is mine," Strade says, doing his best to act polite. Ashley's mouth stretches into a tense line, but right before she can say what's on her mind, they're freed from this fucking banality by Dan bursting through the screen door and onto the back deck.

"You're back!" He says cheerfully, adjusting his belt as he goes. "Come on now, let's go light some fireworks!"


	3. A Beautiful Thing/Fire in the Hole

The walk down the street to the park behind the high-school is uneventful. Strade walks next to Tom, who's decidedly cheered up now that the night is almost over. Dan takes another shot at pairing Strade with Julie, Tom’s response being to smack him on the back and warn him that at 32 he's not getting any younger—rich coming from the guy who just drunkenly confessed to being so deep in the closet he got two kids out of it. Ashley makes sure to keep her distance. Her and Tom make eye contact more than once, and every time Strade finds her looking at him—at the way Tom looks happy while interacting with him and Dan—she looks more and more like she's stepped in dog shit and can't figure out where the smell is coming from.

It's hilariously pathetic.

The high-school green is wide, an open expanse that includes a track encircled soccer field before dipping down to open grass where the public park begins. They set up their blankets and canvas chairs on the top of the hill, a quiet murmur of excitement as the fireworks are set up at the base, sliding easily into the damp ground. With the empty box placed back with the canvas chairs, Strade suddenly finds himself confronted by Julie once again.

"Hi Strade," She says, mouth bright-red as earlier, "I was wondering if I could sit with you?" 

"Sure." He responds with a slight shrug and a smile, tilting his head to the chair next to him. He was expecting Tom to sit next to him, but the not-so-quiet whispers of bickering behind him make him guess otherwise.

"Thank you." Julie takes the seat, folding her legs underneath all prim and proper with her bag in her lap. Strade still can't place her accent, all long 'ous' and soft vowels mixed in with the blandness of a central Canadian accent. "I just wanted to... apologize for my brother. Dan can be a… overzealous? Well--"

_ "Why not? I do it every year!" _

“...So I was thinking that maybe...”

_ "Because you're drunk! I'm not going to let you hurt yourself!" _

Julie is still talking, something about Dan and dating, but Strade isn't really listening to her. Ashley and Tom have gotten louder behind him, whispers turning into vicious hisses.

_ "Tom, for God's sake, will you at least let me help you?" _

He can't turn his head around to look without giving himself away, but Ashley is quieter now. He wishes he could see, because the dumb bitch has replaced her constant anger for worried-sounding pleading, which never happens.

_ "Fine." _ He hears Tom grumble in response.

Strade finally watches as the two enter his view to walk down the hill to the firework setup. They start in the middle, Ashley watching as Tom bends down wit her lighter in his hand. He lights the first firework. It explodes with a flurry of bright blue and a piercing bang in the sky above him. The group hollers in response, Julie erupts into cheering and—My God, why the fuck did Dan bring his baby?—her stupid brother's infant is screaming bloody murder as Tom lets off the next firework. Ashley follows, lighting the row to his left. Green. Blue. Red. Blue. Green. White.

Julie is still talking to him by the time Ashley gets to the end of her row. Strade watches as she squats, lights the firework canister and steps back. 

Nothing happens.

She waits.

_ Nichts. _

Ashley bends back over, lighter in hand to—

The firework explodes with a bang, bleeding red sparks and soot all over the scene. 

The park is dead silent as the smoke clears. Strade sits still in his chair, clenching and unclenching his fingers from the fabric armrests to channel the growing restlessness he feels. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Julie lean forward in her seat. Her face is grim and focused compared to the chatty drunk from a minute earlier…

  
  


And then Tom starts to scream.

  
  


“Oh god!” He shrieks as if the Big Man upstairs can actually hear him, “Help! Somebody help!”

Strade is first on his feet and down the enclave, feet sliding on the wet grass. In a different point of view, he’s the concerned neighbour, the sweat building on his skin from shock and concerned adrenaline—certainly not excitement. 

At the bottom of the hill, next to a blown apart canister that looks more like a bomb shell than a firework lies Ashley curled up in a ball. Tom leans over her, wide-eyed and trembling with panic. He takes one look at Strade, then back to his ex-wife before openly beginning to sob.

"Ashley, it's going to be okay," Tom cries, "Just hold on."

“Stay back! I know first aid,” Julie yells as she rushes down the hill on Strade's heels. Her voice is steady, the tone suggesting she’s seen this all before. She sinks to her knees in the wet grass beside Strade, leaning over Ashley.

"Ashley, can you hear me? Do you want me to help?"

Ashley howls in response, clutching at her face as she writhes in pain. Her hands are burnt, crimson-mauve with shrapnel cuts bleeding bare. Strade can feel his stomach buzz as he tries to picture what her face should look like. She's always been plain, so maybe burns would make an improvement—

"What do you mean 'Do you want help?'— _ she's fucking injured! _ Help her!" Tom interrupts his thoughts by shouting.

"She's conscious...I need her consent. Ashley, do you consent? Can you move your hands for me?"

Ashley makes a noise in the back of her throat, stuck somewhere between a sob and a growl. It doesn't sound like an agreement, but she still moves her hands from her face. 

His stomach twists.

Strade glances at Julie, who's surveying the damage with a pale face. 

"Mon dieu," She whispers, and catching his gaze, does her best to regain her composure.

Ashley’s face is blasted raw, purple-pink darkening to black-red where the skin splits. Strade bites his inner cheek, watching as Ashley tries to look at Tom. Her left eye is damaged by shrapnel, the surrounding area already starting to swell from the pressure. She whimpers from the pain.

Tom makes a horrified choke in response. He's bone-white, breathing heavily through panicked breaths. Is he going to pass out? 

"Ashley, try to keep your eyes still, okay? It will help with the pain." Julie keeps her voice steady, gentle but firm. A professional.

"Tom, I need you to go up the hill and call 911." She switches her attention to Tom, taking his hand in hers as she tries to calm him, "She's going to be okay. Get Dan to bring me the bottled water."

Tom doesn't move, looking from his hand held by Julie to the injured Ashley beneath them.

"Tom?" Strade prompts. 

Tom blinks, looking at him.

"Right." He stands slowly, backing away from his ex-wife with reluctance. He climbs back up the hill, stopping at the top to look back before fully disappearing.

“You don't seem particularly squeamish,” Julie says. She's rummaging through some plastic box she pulled from her bag, and on a second look, Strade realizes it's a first aid kit.

“Have you dealt with injuries like these before?” Julie asks.

He sucks on his teeth as he considers how to answer, and because he figures it's unlikely she is about to question him extensively, settles on “Yes.”

“Good. That's more help for me.”

Plastic crinkles as Julie slips a pair of sanitary gloves on, passing Strade an extra pair in a small bag. He tears the bag open with his teeth, slipping the gloves on as a mimic to Julie.

Strade already knows he's going to hate this. The gloves have the consistency and texture of a Dollarama party balloon. He’d love to use his actual hands instead, no protection. Dan runs down the hill moments later, a cooler of water bottles under his arm. He places it down next to his sister, who promptly reaches inside to grab a bottle.

“Status on EMS?” Julie says. 

“Tom says the paramedics are on the way,” Dan replies, his breathing shaky. 

Strade notices that he's looking anywhere but at Ashley. 

“Estimated arrival time?” Julie continues, already unscrewing a water bottle from its plastic cap. 

“Eight minutes.” 

“C'est plus comme quinze minutes,” Julie mutters under her breath, continuing in a louder tone, “Dan, have someone stand on the street to flag down the ambulance—“

Ashley makes a groan as she tries to speak.

_ “And _ have somebody look after Tom and the kids.” Julie finishes.

She switches her gaze to Strade, holding out the open water-bottle in her gloved hand. 

“Take this. We need to cool the burns.”

Strade takes the bottle. The condensation coupled with the latex of his gloves makes the bottle slippery—he nearly fumbles it, adjusting his hand position for a better grip.

Julie quirks her head forward as she watches him, pulling another water bottle from the cooler and twisting it open. Strade watches as she leans back over Ashley.

“Ashley?” She says, “I’m going to flush your face with water. It might be uncomfortable, but I promise you’ll feel some relief soon.”

Ashley gives the slightest of nods, mouth pulled tight in pain before Julie tips the bottle. 

The water touches down and Strade watches as Ashley practically spasms on contact. She grits her teeth, only letting the smallest of cries out as Julie does her best to cool the burns coating her face. 

“You’re doing great,” She murmurs to Ashley. “Strade’s going to do what I’m doing too, but he’s going to do it to your hands, okay?”

Strade looks at Julie, then at the bottle in his hands. 

He tips it, watching as the cold water runs slowly over Ashley’s burns and cuts. Her hand is trembling, and he can hear the way her breathing hitches. It feels  _ odd. _ He doesn’t really care what happens to Ashley. Really only interested in her reactions. If he could only be allowed to poke and prod at her burns…

He feels warm at the thought, but this isn’t his basement.

This isn’t his basement,  _ and he isn’t alone. _

He doesn’t make the rules here.

So he bites his tongue and follows Julie’s directions. More water to the rest of the burns, and then dressings to wrap her hands and arms. Ashley gasps when he presses a little too hard on one of her arm burns while wrapping the dressing—Julie looks at him directly, and while he’d love nothing more than to tell her to take a hike, he swallows and does his best to act apologetic.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to press that hard,” He says, “I’ll be more gentle.”

The paramedics arrive shortly after that, promptly taking over as they hurry to get Ashley onto a gurney and into the ambulance. He helps Julie put her supplies back into her first-aid kit, and then together they climb the hill after the paramedics to watch as the ambulance leaves. The party is restless at the top of the hill, and once the ambulance is gone with Tom and Ashley inside it, it doesn’t take long for everyone to go home. He walks back with Julie and the rest of Dan's family, watching from the edge as they try to comfort the two _bawling_ Hudson kids.

In a way, he feels reluctant to have the party end so soon. But when he smells the hands, tastes the remainder of firework powder that lingers on his tongue and the look of Ashley’s burnt face and how Tom screamed…

Well…

Strade knows he’ll remember this night for a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this brings us to the end! Please, remember to use fireworks responsibly and don't drink when using dangerous substances! On the other hand, I hope yall enjoyed, feel free to leave me a comment about anything I've written! I'm hoping to maybe tweak some things eventually, but I really wanted to post this!


End file.
